Manifesto

I am already telling you the story. Her name is Estuve and she drives around in an old converted mail truck. She knocks on people’s doors and says, “I was wondering if I could interest you in publishing your manifesto. I have a portable print shop,” and she points to the truck. The two most common reactions she gets are: “No, no, no. It’s not ready yet” and “How did you know about my manifesto?” Her responses to these are: “Oh, I’m sure it’s more ready than you think it is. Let me have a look at it. I’m an expert” and “I don’t mean to put you down in any way at all, but everybody has a manifesto, a memoir, a story. Everybody has one, but everyone’s is different. Everyone is different, and everybody has a story.” Then she enters the house or apartment or trailer or tree and collects all the various scraps of paper, electronic files, and scrolls. She locks herself in the back of her truck and types, scans, scratches, smells, stretches, rubs, and cracks until the manifesto is whole. She saves it to her hard drive, makes four hard copies—two for the owner, two for her archives—drops off the owner’s copies in the mail slot and drives off to the next house.